


peace

by thanksroach (irnhero)



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Death is not Graphic, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Unfinished Business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29810745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irnhero/pseuds/thanksroach
Summary: It is probably in poor taste to spend a great deal of time imagining how your loved ones are going to die. Geralt has never been able to kick the habit. Understandable, he thought, given his line of work. Death stalked his steps and always would; such was the nature of the path he walked. The people he loved paid the price for walking beside him. Jaskier’s death has plagued him the most over the years. But, in the end, his bard surprises him in a way only he could.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	peace

**Author's Note:**

> i’m posting polished versions of some of my [febuwhump prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29139258/chapters/71536530) on their own so they can have their time to shine; this was for the prompt, "you have to let me go"

It is probably in poor taste to spend a great deal of time imagining how your loved ones are going to die. Geralt has never been able to kick the habit. Understandable, he thought, given his line of work. Death stalked his steps and always would; such was the nature of the path he walked. The people he loved paid the price for walking beside him.

Jaskier’s death has plagued him the most over the years. His foolish, foppish, clumsy, careless, danger magnet of a bard. His fellow wolves were Witchers; their deaths were disparagingly predictable. Yennefer was a sorceress; she’d probably outlive him a dozen times over. Ciri was, well,  _ Ciri _ . But Jaskier was only human. Frustratingly, fragilely human. His death was always almost certain to preclude Geralt’s, and as for its cause, the possibilities were endless.

Perhaps his insatiable sex drive would get him. He’d fuck one nobleman’s wife too many and lose his head for it. Or a fisherman’s daughter. Or a blacksmith’s son. They were all equally likely in truth. 

Or maybe his infernal mouth would get him into trouble it couldn’t get him out of. Jaskier always did have a habit of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person. Sometimes he just did it for a good laugh, the bastard. 

Could be that just being human would do him in. He could eat a bad cut of beef, or smack his head on a rock, or drown during a drunken swim, or be bitten by a snake, or get run over by a speeding carriage. Humans died absurdly mundane and at times downright stupid deaths all the time. 

Even so, Geralt always knew that the most likely course of events would be for Jaskier to die at his side, in his care. Jaskier would get too close or move too slowly and Geralt wouldn’t be able to save him. They’d had more close calls than Geralt would ever care to admit and the odds of it increased ten-fold with every year that passed. 

Geralt made his peace with that fact a long time ago. He’d tried to stop Jaskier for his own good more times than he could count, but it never made a lick of difference. Geralt couldn’t make his choices for him and he’d grown begrudgingly fond of him over time. Fondness turned to friendship, and with it came love. What kind, they never felt any need to say, but it was there and more real than either of them.

In the end, Jaskier surprised him as only he could. He didn’t die in any of the ways Geralt’s morbid mind cooked up for him. He went peacefully, at a well-deserved age surrounded by friends with a teaspoon of poppy milk to ease the way. Geralt didn’t make it in time to say goodbye.

It was an illness, the same slow-going ailment that took Jaskier’s father and his father before him. He’d known he was sick a long while before he told anyone, even Geralt. Didn’t want to spoil what time he had left, or so he said. Even through obvious weakness and pain, he assured Geralt that he was content, that he’d lived a good life. That he’d loved and been loved in return which was more than any man could ask for. He sent Geralt back to the path with a promise to summon him before things were too terribly bad.

But the sickness burned through him more quickly than any of his physicians could predict. By the time a bird reached Geralt, it was too late. He rode hard for three days and three nights, but all he could do was hold his bard’s pale hand as he drew his last breaths. He didn’t stay for the burial. He snatched a few keepsakes before he left town, including Jaskier’s lute.

Geralt found Ciri first. She cried into his shoulder and he rubbed her back gently until she calmed down. They caught up and reminisced, trading tales about their ridiculous bard. There were more tears and even more laughter, but a small part of Geralt felt at peace when they parted. 

He left her with a keepsake; one of Jaskier’s old songbooks, the one he’d carried when he first met Ciri. She’d helped him compose a few of the rhymes in those pages and drawn him a funny doodle or two. She clutched the little leatherbound journal to her chest and disappeared through a glowing portal.

Yennefer had already heard the news by the time Geralt managed to find her. She offered her condolences and he accepted them with a low hum. He presented her with one of Jaskier’s rings, an intricate silver band with a large violet gemstone. He always used to say that it reminded him of her. 

Geralt never did understand the odd blend of catty pettiness and profound respect that existed between Jaskier and Yennefer, but he knew there was some kind of tenderness there; something like friendship, though neither of them would dare admit it. Yennefer took the ring with a sad smile and slipped it onto her middle finger. She didn’t cry, that wasn’t like her, but Geralt saw a sheen in her eyes and the barely perceptible tremble of her lip for just a second.

Yennefer asked him to stay awhile, but he declined. He wasn’t ready to stop moving just yet. Stillness brought too many thoughts he didn’t care to contend with. He rode away the next morning with no particular direction in mind and the elven lute strapped to his saddle. 

Weeks turned to months and Geralt kept riding. He didn't stop for more than a day or so if he could help it. And always with the lute in his possession, unconcerned for its bulk and impracticality. He considered selling it or gifting it or simply returning it to the elves, but as soon as such thoughts came, they soured in his mind and turned his stomach. It was all he had of Jaskier now and he couldn’t seem to part with it.

Green of summer gave way to the colors of autumn before long. It was on one of these early fall evenings when his campfire was just becoming necessary for warmth as well as food, that Geralt heard it the first time. Low and sweet, barely audible even to his ears, someone sang. It was only the span of a note, maybe two, then gone. 

Geralt pricked his ears and listened close for a long while, but the voice did not return that night, nor the next. It was more than a week before he heard it again, just as soft as before. He could hardly be sure it was even real, that he hadn’t imagined it all. But it came again a few nights later. And again.

Samhain was approaching, Geralt knew, and as the day grew nearer, the voice grew louder and more frequent. Within a week of the feast day, Geralt was all but certain he’d heard his own name called out in the night.

When Samhain finally did arrive, Geralt was ready; fully armed and armored with potions well-stocked. He let his fire burn low and the darkness encroach upon him, broken only by a bright moon above. He waited.

“ _ Geralt _ ,” called the voice, clear as day and unmistakable. Geralt turned this way and that in search of some sort of entity, but he was alone in the clearing. It called again, “Geralt.”

Geralt froze in his tracks and his blood ran cold. He knew that voice.  _ Intimately _ , he knew that voice, better than his own. He turned around painfully slowly and his sword slipped out of his hand to the forest floor.

_ Jaskier _ . 

He was pale white and transparent like water, but it was him. Young as the day Geralt first met him, but his eyes reflected the joys and pains of every day he’d lived. He smiled and Geralt knew better than to approach such a specter unarmed, but the only part of his mind that functioned at the moment was the bit that ached for his bard. Jaskier held out a hand for him and Geralt reached out, but his arm fell right through. The only evidence it was there at all was the gust of cold Geralt felt even through his glove.

Jaskier’s smile turned sad. “Hello, Geralt,” he said. His voice was unchanged, exactly how Geralt remembered it.

“W– what are you doing here?” It was all he could think to say.

“I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye.” Jaskier in life would have strung out the sentence into a dozen, but this Jaskier seemed content with the words as they were. There was none of his usual restless energy now. He was calm. At peace.

Geralt swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “I miss you,” he croaked.

Jaskier stepped closer into Geralt’s space. Close enough for Geralt to feel his warmth, had there been any to feel. “I know you do, my love. But I’m afraid our time has run out. You have to let me go.”

“I can’t."

“Yes you can,” said Jaskier with ironclad certainty. “You’re so strong, even stronger than you know. You have so much life still to live.”

Geralt watched as Jaskier rested a hand on his chest. It felt like ice against him through all the leather and cloth, but he would bear it forever if only he could. Jaskier smiled again, smaller now, something just for them.

“I have no regrets.” Jaskier’s voice was barely above a whisper. “You were the joy of my life and to love you was a privilege. There isn’t a single day I would change. Remember that, and let me rest.”

Geralt stared at the specter and tried to commit Jaskier’s face to memory exactly as it was; completely content, no pain or wear from the world. His last glimpse. He couldn’t bring himself to speak but he nodded his acceptance. 

Jaskier began to fade almost immediately, slipping away like sand through Geralt’s fingers. There was nothing left but a faint glow in the air, but Geralt still heard him, low and sweet, “Goodbye, Geralt.”

Geralt was alone again when he replied through hitched breath. “Goodbye.”

He burned the lute at daybreak. 

There was a field of wildflowers nearby and he picked as many as he could; daisies, dandelions, primroses, wild carrots, and every buttercup he saw. He filled the instrument with the flowers and stuck what was left under the strings along its neck. He removed a single string before he put it all to the flame and wrapped it tightly around the hilt of his sword, just above the crossguard and Renfri’s broach. 

Geralt stood vigil until there was nothing left but ash. His chest ached much in the same way it had for months now, but it was easier somehow to bear. He felt like he had after he and Ciri had talked. 

At peace. 

~

He made his way back to Jaskier’s resting place eventually. They buried him on a hill covered in wildflowers with the wind and the sun and the sky above him. From there, even human ears could hear the crash of waves in the distance. He always had loved the coast.

**Author's Note:**

> visit me on [tumblr](https://d-andilion.tumblr.com/)


End file.
